


It's a Kind of Magic

by mycitruspocket



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Godparent Crowley (Good Omens), Holding Hands, M/M, Magician Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 16:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21018797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycitruspocket/pseuds/mycitruspocket
Summary: “Let’s head back,” is what Crowley says at last, starting up the car.Aziraphale nods and settles into the seat for about two seconds before he scoots forward again. “The rabbit! Oh Crowley, I forgot Harry the rabbit!”“Fuck…” Crowley hisses and the Bentley comes to an abrupt halt on the Dowlings’ driveway. He should have known.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The warmest thanks go to my trusted first readers and beta darlings kate_the_reader and MsBrightsideSH, as well as to my dear hooptedoodle, who came up with the title because I obviously couldn't see the most obvious...
> 
> I might add a third chapter at some point, but at the moment this story is finished.

**Present Day - Monday - Six days before the end of the world**

“No dog.”

“No dog.”

“Wrong boy.”

“Wrong boy.”

Aziraphale’s formerly rosy cheeks pale, all the cheery excitement he had on stage while performing his demeaning — yet familiar and therefore oddly comforting — magic act drain from his features. Crowley hates himself for being at least partially the cause; the whole plan to avert the Apocalypse by raising the Antichrist had been his idea after all, and he’s fucked it up. Eleven years of planning, working together with Aziraphale so closely, believing it would save the world in the end, and now here they are, totally fucked.

Crowley, who is exceptionally good at coming up with a plan on a whim, though admittedly not very good at the actual execution of it, is at a loss. He keeps staring at Aziraphale, because he’s his favourite thing to look at and usually it’s quite inspiring.

Unfortunately Aziraphale’s distress about the whole wrong boy thing is not helpful, and Crowley can even smell it as it fills up the limited air in the Bentley. Beside him, Aziraphale keeps rubbing his hands nervously and eventually is the first to avert his eyes.

“Let’s head back,” is what Crowley says at last, starting up the car. 

Aziraphale nods and settles into the seat for about two seconds before he scoots forward again. “The rabbit! Oh Crowley, I forgot Harry the rabbit!”

“Fuck…” Crowley hisses and the Bentley comes to an abrupt halt on the Dowlings’ driveway. He should have known.

The thing is, Crowley’s rather fond of Harry, has been since Aziraphale first got him somewhere in the 1980s. He’s lost count of how many times Aziraphale has revived the poor creature, either because one of his magic tricks had gone wrong again or Harry’s tendency to escape had gotten him into some deadly trouble. 

Crowley’s very first thought on the subject of Aziraphale having pets had been that it was a very bad idea. So, because he hadn’t anything else on, he’d read up on it; pets in general, rodents, rabbits in particular. It turned out, taking care of pets means you have to take on responsibility for the creature, make sure it has food and drink, a place to sleep, room to roam about and whatnot. Now Crowley, knowing Aziraphale as well as he does, had quietly and miraculously made sure Harry had everything he needed for the past four decades. 

Four decades! Even with Armageddon being only days away, he’s not going to give up on this blessed rabbit now.

“I’ll go get him,” Crowley says, climbing out of the car.

“Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale calls after him, because of course he has to object to everything Crowley does at all times. Crowley stops in his tracks, like he always does, for his angel.

“Angel, get back in the car,” Crowley says as patiently and calmly as he possibly can with all the raging thoughts in his head. It’s a tone that always works to calm down Aziraphale, to make him listen to Crowley. “If Below sends someone else to check up on the Hellhound that isn’t here, you’ll be safe there. I’ll find Harry, I always do. Alright, angel?”

“Alright, my dear,” Aziraphale says meekly. “Yes, you always do,” he adds quietly, and Crowley smiles at him before turning on his heel, striding back towards the party noise in the garden.

He scans the lawn, looking for something white and fluffy hopping along the grass. What he finds instead, is Warlock, standing alone on the other side of the lawn, apart from the party turmoil in the tent, stroking something white and fluffy.

Crowley slowly raises his left hand upwards along his body, a fluid motion ending with an elegant gesture around his head. When Crowley steps onto the lawn, long curls of red hair are now perfectly pinned in place under a black hat, the red bow needs a tiny readjustment but the purple lipstick feels perfect on her lips.

Warlock turns when he hears someone approaching and when he sees her, his face lights up. Crowley’s heart does too.

“Nanny!” Warlock squeals happily and runs towards her, throwing the arm that’s not full of rabbit around Crowley’s middle. 

“Happy birthday, my darling boy,” Crowley says, not trying very hard to hide the affection in her voice. It’s been a while, and watching the party from afar as a stranger just wasn’t the same.

“Look what I found, Nanny! The magician must have forgotten him. Remember when Brother Francis had a rabbit just like this one?”

“Oh yes of course. He looks awfully familiar,” Crowley says, amused.

“I’d love to keep him, do you think the magician will come back for him? But I don’t think mum would allow it, you know how she is about pets.”

Warlock looks incredibly sad and strokes his fingers lightly over Harry’s ears, just where he likes it best.

“You should keep him,” Crowley encourages him. “I’ve seen the magician, covered in cake, I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“But mum will never allow him in the house.”

“No, but she can’t object when he’s going to live over there.” Crowley snaps her gloved fingers and points into a corner of the estate garden where a spacious rabbit hutch has miraculously appeared. 

“Wow!” Warlock cries excitedly. “That’s the best present ever, Nanny!”

As they walk over, Crowley gives Warlock some basic instructions. He’s listening eagerly, carefully petting Harry the whole time. The hutch, which looks more like a miniature cottage with a white picket fence surrounding it, will take care of the rest: fresh food, water and straw at all times, the perfect temperature for every season, instant removal of droppings and whatnot. It’s basically an outdoor update to what he’d miracled for Harry to live in, at the bookshop.

“He’s got everything he needs here, even a companion, you see.” Crowley nods in the direction of a black rabbit that is sniffing the air curiously as they arrive. “He won’t ever feel lonely, now that he’s got you and him. And neither will you, my darling.”

“No, never.” Warlock beams and Crowley’s heart swells. “But you will visit more often, yes? See if I’m doing this right?” Warlock releases Harry who immediately greets his new furry friend with a gentle nose bump. “Maybe you could bring Brother Francis, he seemed to know a lot about animals.”

“Oh yes,” Crowley chuckles. “I’ll bring him next time, I promise.”

Crowley, who cannot say for certain that there is going to be a next time with the Apocalypse at the horizon and all that, kneels down and hugs the boy close. “Remember to pet his ears just so, yes? And I think the black one likes tummy rubs.”

“Didn’t you use to tell me all living things are only fit to be ground under my heels or something?”

“That was a long time ago. Use your instincts and you’ll do just fine.” 

"Ok Nanny, I'll figure it out." Crowley knows he will, they raised him after all, Antichrist or not.

*

When Crowley walks back to the car, taking wide strides with his too long legs, clad again in too tight denim, he sees Aziraphale scrambling out in a hurry as soon as he’s in sight. He seems confused at the lack of white rabbit and Crowley’s attempt at a reassuring smile only fuels his irritation.

“Crowley, where,” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley cuts him right off.

“Trust me, angel. Come have a look.” He makes a vague gesture with his head back towards the garden and turns dramatically on his heel.

Crowley leads him to a spot behind a hedge and lets Aziraphale see for himself. Warlock is now sitting inside the fenced area, smiling happily as both rabbits are hopping around him until they both stop for a cuddle in his lap.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers and heaves a bittersweet sigh.

And then Crowley finds tentative, soft fingers slip in between his own, a careful exploration until Aziraphale’s hand is holding onto his own ever so gently. Crowley stops breathing, stops thinking, only focuses on this rare gift of a touch. 

Aziraphale has done this before, on a few memorable occasions, and always Crowley’s reaction had been a silent acceptance, a grateful stroke of his thumb over his angel’s skin. He’d never dared to look at Aziraphale during these intimate moments in fear of ruining them. He’d always quietly enjoyed them while they lasted, knowing they’d be over soon, dreaded the coldness he’d feel once Aziraphale broke the touch.

Crowley had never once dared to initiate it himself, never wanting to force himself on Aziraphale like this, afraid he’d get too greedy, but he’d also always waited for Aziraphale to let go again. If the choice were be left to Crowley, he’d never, ever let go.

So he keeps standing there, unmoving apart from the pattern he strokes on the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb, and waits. Waits for the moment to end, for Aziraphale to find some reason or another why they should get on with whatever their respective head offices expect of them.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, soft and earnest.

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley says, voice rough. “He’s earned a happy retirement in the countryside, right?”

“Yes, he does. We only have to make sure it lasts longer than a few days.”

There it is, conversation moving into work territory again. One last squeeze of Aziraphale’s hand and then it’s gone. But to Crowley’s surprise, only to work itself into his hair to pluck something out of it.

“Oh, whatever have we here?” Aziraphale holds a single hairpin in his hand and smiles fondly. “I always liked when you did your hair up with these.”

He pockets it and walks back to the driveway, leaving Crowley speechless and stumbling behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley waits. Crowley waits for Aziraphale to let go of his hand. He has been waiting for it to happen since Aziraphale took it while walking past Crowley who held open the front door of The Ritz for him. It’s been exactly two hours, 42 minutes and 11 seconds, not that he’s been counting, and they are still walking hand in hand from park to park.

**The very first day of the rest of their lives **

Crowley waits. Crowley waits for Aziraphale to let go of his hand. He has been waiting for it to happen since Aziraphale took it while walking past Crowley who held open the front door of The Ritz for him. It’s been exactly two hours, 42 minutes and 11 seconds, not that he’s been counting, and they are still walking hand in hand from park to park.

At first, Crowley had been utterly overwhelmed by the fact that this wasn’t one of Aziraphale’s fleeting touches, that Aziraphale wasn’t going to let go like he had always done in the past. He’d been so used to enjoying every second of these rare gifts, that he hadn’t realised that seconds had turned into many long minutes. After a while, Crowley had managed to engage in the conversation a hopefully normal amount after the initial shock of the surprisingly long-lasting contact. Now, after almost three hours, he is pretty sure they’ll walk the earth like this for eternity because he hasn’t learned how to let willingly go of his angel. Doesn’t want to, ever. For as long as he can remember, for as long as they have played this game, letting go has never been his move.

Aziraphale, currently on a monologue about the abominable state of park benches these days, asks Crowley if he was by any chance responsible for the design of seating furniture that isn’t at all comfortable. 

“Ha, wish I was,” Crowley laughs, waves his free hand and a baroque style park bench appears just a few steps away. “That’s more your style, angel?”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale says is that soft and pleased way that makes Crowley’s knees go weak. “Come, let’s have a seat, my dear.”

“Sure,” Crowley agrees, and lets Aziraphale pull him towards it with a firmer grip on his hand.

Aziraphale wiggles himself into a comfortable position on the bench, beams at Crowley and puts their joined hands on his thigh. On the back of his hand he can feel the heat of Aziraphale seeping through the fabric of his trousered leg. Crowley swallows, looks down at this now larger point of contact between them and does what he does best, even though he’s famous for getting into trouble because of it: he asks questions.

“Aziraphale, what would happen if I let go?” Crowley ponders, eyes still fixed on their hands.

Aziraphale follows his gaze. “Do you want to let go?” he asks gently.

“No.” He’s quite sure about that.

“Do you want  _ me _ to let go?” 

“No,” Crowley replies quickly, because he’s even more sure about that. “Only I thought, one of us has to let go, at  _ some _ point, and then…” He trails off because he honestly doesn’t know what would happen.

“And then, one of us would simply pick up the other’s hand again if they felt like it. I’m pretty sure that’s how humans handle this sort of display of affection,” Aziraphale finishes his sentence.

_ Affection.  _ Crowley’s shielded eyes snap up to see the most lovely smile on his face.

“For example,” Aziraphale says, “I could let go briefly, to do this.”

With one last reassuring squeeze of his hand he lets go and Crowley feels bereft only for a split second because Aziraphale’s hands both come up to cup his face. His fingers trace over the frame of his glasses, asking for permission to take them off with only a look and Crowley nods. One of Aziraphale’s hands stays in place while the other folds away his glasses and then resettles on the back of Crowley’s neck, pulling him closer.

“And I could do this, as well,” Aziraphale breathes against his lips. 

“Please, anything you want,” Crowley whispers, feeling very much on board with this change of contact. 

He’s unable to resist this sweet temptation for a moment longer, so he closes the gap between them, touches Aziraphale's soft mouth with the gentlest of kisses and melts against him. Their lips brush tenderly, the tips of their tongues meet in careful exploration and slowly, they are learning how to share these new, intimate touches and voice them with private sighs and quiet moans.

While they kiss Crowley fails to count the time that is passing, it could’ve stopped and he wouldn’t have noticed. But it doesn’t matter, they can do this as long as they want, they have all the time in the world.

When they later walk back towards the bookshop, again hand in hand, neither of them could say who took the other's hand first. Or, a few days later, who was the first to let go to welcome Warlock with open arms. 

**Author's Note:**

> The bit about the hairpin was inspired by Hairpins by elizajane: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19401361


End file.
